


Miracle Worker

by Army C (arh581958)



Series: #GallavichWeek [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: 5k of unapologetic porn, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crack, Day 1 - Sexy Times, Explicit Sexual Content, Gallavich Week, Gratuitous Smut, Ian's a dubious little shit, M/M, Mickey solves penis problems, Oral Sex, Secrets, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut, Smut, attempted humor, come to hell with me, misrepresentation, slight dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-17
Updated: 2016-07-17
Packaged: 2018-07-24 12:27:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7508245
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arh581958/pseuds/Army%20C
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mickey Milkovich is a sex god. Not, not in the literal sense but he is really, really, (did he already say really?), great in the sack. There isn’t anyone he’s been anyone that he’s ever blown who hasn’t come from his tongue along. He’s so good at oral that he does it for a living. </p><p>Some he’s a miracle worker. </p><p>(Or: Mickey's mouth is some kind of miracle-shit and he's not afraid to use it for money. #Mickey'sMadTongueSkills)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miracle Worker

**Author's Note:**

> Hello~ It's my first time writing for #GallavichWeek, and I am so _freaking_ excited about it! I hope you enjoy this porny non-canon sexy times with them meeting for the first time. Since, we all need a break from Season6 and non-Gallavich canon. Urgh. I send my loves~
> 
> **Not Beta Read. Open for Volunteers.**

 

Mickey Milkovich is a sex god. Not, not in the literal sense but he is really, really, (did he already say really?), great in the sack. There isn’t anyone he’s been _anyone_ that he’s ever blown who hasn’t come from his tongue along. He’s so good at oral that he does it for a living.

Some he’s a miracle worker.

Life come back from the dead. In his case, blood goes down to the genitals when he uses his godlike tongue technique. He’s even cured some hopeless (until him) cases of erectile dysfunction.

It’s a very lucrative business. People—men or women, straight, bi, homosexual, and everything in between—pay him a hefty sum just to get his tongue on their sex. Of course, just the front part though because he’s not fond of anal.

He’ll incorporate it, if only prostitution isn’t illegal in Chicago. His office is the last barstool in Alibi, a place he partially owns after buying-in at eighteen from money he’s scraped up from his little _miracles_. It’s good steady income so he can be pickier with his clientele.

At 21, he’s got it down to a science.

Protection. Protection. Protection.

No glove, no love.

Condoms.

Blood tests for every client, and monthly for himself.

Married people must come with the consent of their spouses. Yes, those exist, proving that just about anyone will do anything to improve their sex life. He’s not tearing apart marriages. Too much drama.

No feelings involved.

Mickey understands the human psyche better than anyone. It’s easier without having to deal with mundane things like feelings. Less things to deal with make it quicker to handle. Most cases and in-and-out. None of his clients have ever needed a second session, makes it less awkward too. After all, his business face can only hold for so long.

Tonight’s a regular night. He nurses his beer in his little corner, idly picky at the label while watching patrons filter in and out. It’s early and quiet, and just the way he likes it. A rowdy bar’s only ever good if he needed something to distract him. Life’s been pretty good to him so far.

“Hey,” a new voice greets and someone slides onto the barstool beside him.

Mickey cocks his head to the side to see the guy better. He not like any of Mickey’s past customers. Mickey’s guessing that he ain’t one. “Fuck off, I’m waiting for someone.” He huffs into the mouthpiece of his beer bottle then turns his gaze back on the grainy TV program playing on the small stolen monitor.

At the corner of his eye, he sees the guy flustering. “I, uhm, my brother Lip, uhh, says you can help me? With my, uhm,” he lowers his voice and whispers, “problem…?”

“Huh,” is all Mickey can say. He turns around to face the guy for a better look. To be honest, the guy’s not really bad looking, a little out of place maybe. He’s got the whole mismatched thing going for him—a beanie covering his head, thick rugged jacket with a loose scarf around his neck, dark jeans, and laced-up boots.

“Listen, kid, I don’t know what your brother said but my shit ain’t free. It’s fucking expensive, ayt? Why don’t you just go home and get chick to blow you? Or a guy. Don’t really care what rings your bells. You look like you won’t have trouble finding a warm mouth. Why don’t you save yourself the trouble?”

“But I…” the guy rummages through his pockets and pulls out a roll of bill. The one covering it all is none other than Benjamin himself. “I have all this money because I really want to… I really have to...” He sticks it back into his pocket, with a dejected look on his face. “I’ll just go then.”

“Wait,” Mickey calls out before he can stop himself. The guy whips around faster than anything he’s ever seen. It’s a surprise the guy doesn’t get whiplash. Mickey rubs the back of his neck and demands for blood test result which he requires up front.

“Now?” The guy asks in surprise.

Mickey rolls his eyes. “What? The fuck. Think I’m gonna put my mouth on that dirty thing just because you pay me to? I ain’t no fucking whore. Just because I suck cock for a living doesn’t make me nobody’s bitch, ayt? We clear on that?”

“No bitch,” the guy stutters, “alright.”

“So, you got the test or not?” Mickey opens his hand, palm-side up. The hands him the envelope with the result from the one clinic that Mickey trusts. He opens it on instinct, eyes scanning the verdict: negative. Then, on a whim, he glances at the guy’s name—Gallagher, Ian.

He doesn’t remember the name.

Ian’s staring at him nervously. “Is that… is that okay? I’m good right.”

Mickey sticks out his hand again, wordlessly waiting for the cash.

“Uhm…?”

“Money,” he demands with the corner of his mouth twisting. Jesus, could the guy get any awkward? It’s like it’s his first time or something. Imagine that, a fucking virgin coming to him? Aren’t those the ones who normally have no problem getting it up?

“Here.” Ian hands him the wad of bills.

Mickey pockets it without a thought. “Ayt, let’s go,” he jerks his head to the side and side off the barstool. They exit the backdoor into the alley. It’s dim and dark and dingy. He couldn’t care less. Over the years, it takes him less and less time to get a guy hard. It isn’t his duty to finish the job. He just makes the blood rush where it needs to be.

“Put your back against the wall and pull your cock out,” he orders, pointing to said wall.

Ian fumbles with his pants with shaky hands. It’s a miracle that he doesn’t accidently get caught in the zipper. When he does finally pull out his cock, Mickey’s mouth waters at the sight of it. It’s at least seven inches flaccid, and he’s imagining the length of it when fully erect inside his mouth.

Mickey doesn’t realize how much passed until Ian looks at him apprehensively.

“Uhm?” Ian rocks on the balls of his feet. “Aren’t you gonna…?”

Mickey sinks to his knees unceremoniously on the ground in front of him, and takes all of Ian in one swoop. Seven inches disappear past his lips in seconds. His gag reflect is virtually non-existent by now. There’s a choked sob above him. He smirks around the cock and gets to work—technique practiced and perfect, and gets anyone hard in minutes.

Not this time.

Half an hour in, and Mickey’s still at it. Ian’s either resilient or seriously numb from the waist down because Mickey’s jaw starts to ache. He hasn’t had to blow a guy this long since his first time. It’s a little insulting but a huge blow it his ego.

“Focus on getting hard, damnit!” He glares when he pulls off.

Ian stares down sheepishly from above him. “See? I told you it was a problem. I’m nineteen, dude, not forty and I can’t fucking get it up! You think I _want_ to be flaccid?!” His glare matches Mickey’s. “Maybe your _miracle tongue_ ain’t so miraculous at all. Fuck man, what a rip off.”

Hands push Mikey away. “Look, man, maybe you can just give me back my cash and we’ll call it square. I swear, I won’t rat on you.”

“No.”

Even if Ian doesn’t squeal, in this kind of shady business, reputation is all Mickey has. He can’t risk it getting out. Alibi makes a decent buck but it’s not enough. Mickey wants out of the Southside, and his saving a squirrel fund to make it—the sooner, the better, so every single cent counts.

Mickey uses the back of his hand to wipe off the excess spit. “Fuck you. Something’s seriously wrong with your nuts if you still ain’t hard.”

“Maybe something wrong with this alley _or your technique_ , ‘cause it ain’t doing shit for me.” Ian retorts back. He’s back in his pants, monster of a cock tucked safely away.

Mickey might not be bottom but he appreciates a nice long cock inside his mouth, especially one as thick and long as Ian. Hell, he might even say he that misses the feeling of it. His tongue twitches inside his mouth. Even so, his business and his reputation is on the line, and he doesn’t give up easily.

“Let’s go,” he grumbles, fingers capturing Ian’s slim wrist, “Where’s going.”

“Going?” Ian asks, “Going where?”

“Somewhere.” Mickey throws over his shoulder as they make their way out the alley. They walk a long time until he spots the skyline of abandoned building. He hasn’t had to use it in ages, but never for this purpose.

Chicago summers aren’t cold by the long run. They’ll have a slight chill but it’s no worse than trying to get it up in a backstreet alley. He takes Ian up a slight of stairs. The second floors still have a bit of walls left. At least, like this, they’ll be hidden from any prying eyes and Mickey’s knees don’t have to ache so much.

“Over there,” he points to where an old mattress is pushed against the wall. There’s a chair beside it. “On the chair, shoes off, pants off, get comfortable. “I ain’t no bitch that’s giving up.”

Ian follows without a word. Soon, he’s down to his shirt in no time with a pile of his clothes neatly folded a few feet from the bed. “Do…” he sounds nervous again, “do I sit on the chair or on the bed?”

“Chair.”

He assumes the position—sitting down timidly on the chair with his legs close.

Mickey takes a seat in front of him, on the mattress. His face at perfect level with Ian’s crotch. He’s not saying that he specifically stole the chair and dragged the mattress here for this purpose. Sometimes he likes to smoke and hang around here, even slept over a few times when he was running away from his father before he had money to move out. It had been a drag to set-up.

Right now thought, he thinks it was the smartest thing he ever did, apart from moving out.

Ian’s legs, just like the rest of him, are deceivingly toned under those ratty old jeans. Up-close, Mickey sees freckles dotting the guy’s shins and knees, and he bets there’s more on Ian’s inner thighs, with sparse sprinkles of red hair. He taps the Ian’s knees to get the redhead to open his legs. Ian does, and damn if Mickey’s mouth doesn’t water at how the long cock is framed by red curls.

Firecrotch definitely had some fire on his crotch.

Like this, Mickey sees everything—the smooth paleness of Ian’s inner thighs, the crease between his hip and leg, and the sharp delicious _cut_ of his hips. He forces the legs wider, maybe a tad too much, just to he can feel the muscle spasm under his fingertips, and Ian hisses from above him.

Mickey gets down to business. He doesn’t deep-throat immediately like he had before. No, like this, he can take all his time in the world to tease the erection out of Ian. It’s not his regular MO but he feels like he needs to prove himself after failing in the alley.

With brute strength, he drags the chair noisily across the floor until its legs hit the side of the mattress with Mickey’s legs bracketed under it. Ian seems to have just taken a bath before coming to Alibi because he still smells mostly of soap rather than dingy man-sweat that Mickey isn’t too fond of.

He starts by kisses a trail up and down Ian’s thighs—licking, nipping, and sucking it with bruises, feeling the redhead tremble above him. When he reaches the apex of Ian’s legs, he noses at the loose hanging balls before taking one into his mouth and rolling it on his tongue. The dick beside his cheek twitches. For a moment, he thinks he’s gone it, but it remains soft.

“Damnit!”

“Cursing at my dick’s not gonna make it harder.” Ian mocks a little, moving to get up again.

Mickey holds his thighs down like a vise. “Well you couda at least damn well tried! Stop moving or I’m gonna rip your balls off and feed it to you.”

Ian snorts. “Well, that’s _really_ encouraging, Mick.”

Mickey goes in for the kill. He swoops down on Ian’s cock and keeps swallowing until his throat feels raw and achy. Breathing causes him to jerk tears in his eyes. It burns to breath with his nose pressed against Ian’s crotch. The cock feels thick and long inside his throat but still _not hard_ , and he wants to cry in frustration and humiliation that he’s failing to do the _one thing_ he’d good at.

“Hey,” Ian says, as if sensing Mickey’s impending breakdown. A surprising gentle hand clamps over Mickey’s shoulder. “You know I’ve been thinking of a lot of sexy thought to nudge myself along, but I think it’ll be better if I had the real thing. Can I blow you, Mick?”

The nickname registers for the first time. Mickey pulls off with a glare. “It’s _Mickey_ , not Mick.” He shrugs Ian’s hand off. His fingers gentle massage the ache in his jaw. “You wanna blow me?” Client normally don’t even want to reciprocate for whatever they paid. He doesn’t understand why Ian would want to do it.

Ian just nods. “Yeah,” he answers sheepishly, and his dick makes a valiant effort to twitch in order to prove it. He cocks his head, smug. “See? I wanna blow you, _Mickey_ , and there’s a working mattress behind you.”

Mickey gives up declining. “Fine,” he says, pushing the chair away so he can stand, “But I’m gonna stay on top. I can’t have your long gangly limbs strangling be to death if you lose your balance.” He strips his clothes, calm and practiced, but his skin’s tingling with excitement he hasn’t felt in years. Sex for him became a transaction long ago.

Ian lays down on the bed, and Mickey gets into position on top of him. They do a classic 69 with Mickey bracketing Ian’s head with his knees while his face is level with Ian’s crotch. He jerks Ian off with one had while mouthing over the head, sucking at the slit. He seals his lips together, and makes a vacuum when he sucks. Under him, Ian pants transform into a moan.

“Mickey, god, Mickey,” Ian groans, breath hot against Mickey’s dick. It’s filling slow with more and more of Ian’s noises echoing in the empty space.

“You like that, eyy?” Mickey glances back to see Ian flushed red between his legs. He takes a mental picture for future reference. It might be his new thing—red head with lanky limbs and _fuck me_ lips. He wants to know what those look like around his cock, and that face thrown back in ecstasy. “Ayy, too good that you can’t even blow me?”

“Jesus, _Mickey_ ,” Ian throws his head back when Mickey pinches his head. He’s not hard, not by a long shot, but his dick is twitching in Mickey’s hands. “I think you might get me hard.”

“Damn right,” Mickey replies smugly. Maybe, if Ian’s really good, Mickey’ll fuck him tonight too. “Get on my cock Gallagher. My ass if freezing here.”

Ian squeezes Mickey’s ass in apology. “Get I play with your ass too? It’d be such a waste not to.”

“Fuck no.” Mickey knees Ian on the side of the head for emphasis. “Blow or go, Firecrotch but I’m not letting you near my ass. Cock _now_ —ohhh!” He can’t help the yelp of surprise that punches through him. Ian—Ian isn’t half bad at giving head. Mickey’s right. The guy does own a pair of perfect _fuck me_ lips which are currently wrapper around the tip of his cock. His balls tighten within minutes.

Ian kneads Mickeys cheeks with long slim fingers. “Fuck, Mickey, you’re sensitive,” he pulls off the cock with a _pop,_ and gives the balls the same warm wet suction. His finger trails up and down the thick vein on the underside, staring at the flesh like it was sent by the angels of heaven. “I bet other parts of you are sensitive too.”

“Shut the fuck up and concentrate on your own goddamn cock!” Mickey squeezes Ian flaccid cock in retaliation. He’s only agreed to such a humiliating position because he doesn’t want to look like a fool. The least that Ian can do is _get hard_. Damnit. Not play around with his—

In one swift move, Ian plunges a saliva-slick finger inside of Mickey, making the brunette bow in back and mewl like a dying animal.

Mickeys squishes Ian’s head with his thighs, forcing the redhead off. “What the _fuck_ are you doing?!” He hissed, glaring at Ian upside down, which in hindsight isn’t much help because his leaking erection block his view. It’s enough to see Ian smirk though. Then, white hot pleasure zaps up his spine as Ian crooks the fingers inside him.

“I’m teaching you,” comes the confident reply.

Mickey grits his teeth, “As—asshole.”

“Hmmm,” Ian hums cheekily, “yes, your asshole is sensitive too.” He’s moving his fingers. “You don’t play with yourself much, do you? _God_ , you’re tight! And hot. And, _fucking Christ,_ Mickey! Don’t clamp down like that. It’s like you wanna pull my finger off!”

“Get it out of my ass!” Mickey tries, he really does, but it comes out as a half-pant. His knees grow weaker with each passing second. “Fuck it, Gallagher!” He groans when a second one enters.

Ian starts buckling his hips. “God, Mickey, you’re so fucking hot. Keep going. Fuck. Suck me. C’mon. I’m gonna be good. I’m gonna be so good for you,” he says, more like promises, while he plays with Mickey’s ass using his fingers—stretching and scissoring.

It all goes to Mickey’s head. He can’t think. His body runs on autopilot with the double assault on his body. Ian’s right. He’s never played with _that_ part of him before. He never wanted to. He might have been gay but he’s been banging dudes all his like not getting banged. That’s the main reason he survived juvie. He ain’t no fag.

Ian’s touching him—inside him. Mickey can’t wrap his head around it. So, he lets go. He takes Ian into his mouth again trying to ease the _need_ for something to keep him occupied while Ian goes to town on his ass. He pulls the cock out just in time for a howl of delirious pleasure when something warm and wet joins in the game. He goes back to sucking the length, wanting it to bruise with hickeys even if it’s impossible.

The sounds which echo are horrible and lewd—slicking and sliding of wet skin, saliva, and pre-cum.

Ian’s mouth returns to his cock. Mickey’s eyes water as Ian’s flaccid dick touches the back of his throat. Then, after all that, Ian does something with his fingers—crooking it at an angle as he plunges inside—as he swallows. It’s too much. Too soon. Mickey’s orgasm explodes in white at the back of his eyes before he dips into darkness.

Mickey wakes up to Ian’s cock slipping out of his mouth. A good minute passes before he realizes it. “You’re hard,” he says in triumph, “see? I knew it! I can get anyone hard. My tongue is a miracle worker! Fuck yes!”

“It is,” Ian sounds breathless, “You are—”

Mickey’s world suddenly spins around without warning. The next thing he knows, he’s on his back with Ian hovering on him—a feral smirk on his face.

“You are definitely a fucking _miracle_ , Mickey. But it’s not just your mouth. _Fuck_ ,” Ian groans while he spreads Mickey’s cheeks apart, wet and ready to take him, “I bet your ass is going to feel even better.”

The shout that rips form Mickey doesn’t sound human. He shakes violently with the overwhelming sensitivity of his virgin hole being penetrated by Ian’s dick—even longer than the original seven inches.

Without his erection to distract him, he can feel it all. He groans, low and rough, feeling the thickness slide inside him. It’s an unknown feeling, having something slip inside where it’s usually the other way around. It’s new, and so, so _good_ that tears spring in his eyes.

“Mickey, _god_ , you’re so tight,” Ian whispers in reverence. He licks everywhere—on Mickey’s ears, and neck, and shoulders—like it’s the tastiest treat in the word, sucking bruises onto the pale skin, making it as his own, leaving proof for tomorrow.

Mickey’s hands dig into the mattress. He feels it—everything; how Ian’s thick girth is slowly making its way inside his body. It’s tight just like Ian says because he hasn’t taken anything like _this_ before, never even played with it. Ian’s tongue is wicked and filthy, slippery and wet, soft but firm, helping in turning Mickey into mush while he pushes in inch by agonizing inch.

They’re damp with sweat by the time Ian’s thighs touch his, and Mickey closes his eyes to savor the burn. He’s trembling and exhausted even as he lays on his back with Ian holding his legs up. A tremble passes through his body and he convulses over the flesh embedded inside him.

“Fuck,” Ian curses from above him, “don’t.” He, too, holds his eyes closed, starving off his orgasm.

“Ian, Ian,” Mickey chants because that’s all he can say. His hands come to grip at Ian’s biceps, deceptively toned under the loose green shirt. He’s holding on for dear life. When he opens his eyes, he sees Ian flushed above him—pale skin reddish with exertion and sweat matted down his hair.

There’s an urge to see what’s underneath the stupid black beanie. He surges up and grabs the offending hat, throwing it somewhere behind him. Red is what he sees first. Ian’s fiery red hair that’s standing up in several places.

It’s sexy as fuck.

Ian grins above him.

Mickey wants to wipe that smug green off the redhead’s face. So, he clamps down as hard as he can, tightening up his asshole even if he’s unsure it’s the right thing he to do. Ian lets out a whine and Mickey preens that he’s able to make that look on Ian’s face.

“S’that all you got, Firecrotch?”

“No,” Ian grits his teeth, visibly shaking. “Just—give me a minute.”

A wicked plan forms in Mickey’s head.

“Move,” Mickey demands without waiting, “ _move_ , goddamnit or I’m going to move for you.” It’s a thinly veiled threat but it works since Ian starts to rock his hips, slowly at first but gaining confidence and momentum. “Yeah, yeah, like that.”

“See, Mickey?” Ian asks despite sounding winded, “Even if it’s your ass, it feels good too, right? Tell me it feels good, Mickey, tell me.”

“It’s good,” Mickey confesses like a prayer, “It’s good, _so good_.” Ian’s cock, long and thick, slides and out of him, and he slowly loses his grasp of reality. Everything narrows down to that one place where they’re connected—the stretch of it, the burn of it.  

“Oh god,” he croaks out, “oh _god_.”

He knows that bottoms like the feeling of being stretched but not like this, never like this, he didn’t think he’d ever want it. Right now though, he does. He wants it so bad, craves it like a phantom limb, desperately need it.

Ian’s groaning above Mickey like an animal, blabbering incoherently. Words like “baby, yes, just like that, feel so good,” come pouring out of his mouth.

Mickey’s so full. He feels like he about to explode. “Ian, _fuck_ , so big,” he says, not caring if he sounds like the faggy bottoms that he fucks once in a while. He doesn’t care about that now. All he wants his Ian’s dick to _move_ , and _slide_ , and _fuck_ him like he fucks other boys. “More, c’mon, harder, _damnit_ , harder!”

Ian eagerly complies. He heaved Mickey’s legs over his shoulder and slams back inside with enough force to knock the wind form Mickey’s lungs in a long drawn-out scream.

Mickey can’t think.

He can’t breathe.

Ian’s hitting something inside him that makes him sees stars behind his eyes, and he think he might be dying. It’s the legendary secret spot that Mickey’s heard about but never really known, until now. He would erect monuments for it once he saved enough cash.

Their breaths, and sweat, and curses mingle. Ian pounds away inside him, and Mickey thinks he’s found religion in the way beads of sweat pour down Ian’s bangs, the flush of his lightly tanned skin, and the slide of Ian’s cock inside his stretched hole. His legs start slipping off Ian’s shoulders.

But, Mickey’s greedy. “More,” he demands, unsatisfied with the depth, “ _deeper, fuck, Ian, deeper_.” He doesn’t care if he’s shouting the words, or if he’s sounds as desperate and need as he feels. “C’mon, Ian, fuck be deeper!” He doesn’t realize he’s reaching out until his whole world spins again.

“Fuck,” they both groan out.

Mickey winds his arms around Ian’s neck while the redhead’s steady hands guide his hips to move. The new position, with him straddling Ian’s hips and thighs, makes Ian go deeper. Gravity guides them, pulling Mickey down, joining them more than their previous position.

It’s amazing and breathtaking and indescribable, all at the same time.

Ian jolts up with every single one of Mickey’s thrusts down.

They move in tandem.

They move as one.

Exchanging sweat as heat rises between them.

Ian’s shirt dampens into a dark green. Clear moist pre-cum stains the front. “Fuck,” he moans, hands run up and down of Mickey’s sides. Palm hot like a branding iron. He urges Mickey’s half-hard erection to full mast using his hand. “Come on, come on.”

Mickey tightens involuntarily when he feels Ian’s hand on his cock. It’s too much. The simulation on both ends. Inside him, Ian’s pressing against a bundle of nerves on every single thrust, and outside the hot sweat-damp hand quickly slicks up with pre-cum over his cock.

“Ian,” is all he can say, “Ian, I’m gonna—!”

Hot cum splashes over their shirts as Mickey releases. His whole body jerks at the strength of it.

“Mickey, Mickey, Mickey,” Ian chants as he follows.

They collapse in a heap of heated sweaty bodies on the dingy old mattress. Ian falls back, bringing Mickey down with him. It causes them both to jolt at the twin sensations of Ian’s cock in Mickey’s ass, both sensitive from their orgasm but neither of them really willing to move.

Mickey ends up moving first, if just to untangle their limbs. He tries to stand and fails. “What the fuck?!” He yells out as he falls down beside the mattress from weak knees. A sharp shooting pain comes from the base of his spine. His legs feel jigglier than Jell-O. “What the fuck—I can’t—I can’t move…”

Beside him, Ian giggles.

“The fuck you laughing at, asshole?” Mickey sends a death glare over his shoulder.

Ian lounges lazily on the bed, stretching out like a cat, still smiling. “Funny use of words seeing as _your asshole_ is causing you all the trouble, eyy, _Mick_?” The smug bastard looks like he just won the lottery instead of being an inexperienced virgin with an erectile dysfunction.

It clicks.

“You—you,” Mickey stutters, pointing an accusing finger at Ian, “You bastard! You lied!”

Ian doesn’t even have the decency to appear apologetic. “Of course, I did, I mean, I gotta scout the competition somehow, right? Rumor was you charge a hella a lotta cash and real picking of your clients too makes you seem all kindsa prestigious and shit. Draws in little fish in schools, all wanting to getta taste of you, and all you do is blow’em too. But ev’ryone’s satisfied. And _damn_ , now I get why.”

“W—what the fuck you talkin’bout?”

Mickey still frozen on the floor when Ian moves, thumb pressing against his lower lip. He would have bitten the stupid thing off if his brain’s functioning properly but it isn’t.

“You’ve got one hell of a technique. No doubt that a lesser man would have gotten hard in an instant. I almost got hard a few times before I was finished prepping you. It took all of my self-control not to pop-up like a fucking amateur,” Ian says, laughing casually at Mickey’s death glare, “Your ass felt good though, right?”

Mickey wants to punch him in the face when his legs start working again. Unluckily for him though, Ian doesn’t seem as though he’ll wait long enough for that to happen.

“The fuck you goin’?” he demands.

Ian only chuckles at the cum stain on his shirt while he reaches for his pants. “I know I don’t look it but I’m a Southie like you too, kay? I know the look that I’m about to get beat up or some serious shit, and I ain’t sticking around for it, _Mick_.” He’s dressed in record time, then turns to Mickey.

“That was fun. Like really fun. I don’t think I’ve met anyone who takes cock as good as you. Don’t ever put that on the table ‘cause all the whore will go out of business in a snap—” he snaps his fingers, “—as for me though,” he smiles, “I admit defeat. Your tongue is a gift from the gods to impotent men and women around the world. I ain’t no competition to you. Lucky me that you’re a picky asshole. I’ll scrape the floor of your rejected losers.”

Torn between irritated and smug, Mickey simply stares.

Ian catches it, and grins. “You look like you want me to kiss you right now.”

“N—no,” Mickey denies it with a red-face. “Try, and I’ll fucking cut your tongue off, Gallagher!”

“Okay,” Ian nods, with the audacity to sound disappointed, “Well, I better go then, Mickey. I’ll see you around…?”

“Fuck off!” Mickey tries his best to sound threatening. It seems to work because Ian’s face completely closes off before he turns his back. A part of him, an illogical part of him, wants to call out to the redhead and ask Ian to come back.

He doesn’t.

**Author's Note:**

> As always, if you liked or enjoyed this fic, you should know what to do. **Comment/Kudos/Bookmarks** are always appreciated by this author. :)
> 
> If you have a prompt or an idea, you can [INSPIRE ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/submit) on tumblr. Or [TALK TO ME](http://arh581958.tumblr.com/ask)~
> 
> As always, **kudos/comments/bookmarks** are all appreciated by this author. I take comments as extra-kudos and I _do_ read the bookmark tags (some are really fun).


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